


Fallout Storm

by PlasmaBooks



Series: Shelter [1]
Category: Final Space (Cartoon)
Genre: baby little cato au, i try best, i try best x2, im sorry, im sorry guys i swear i tried to write something happy for her but i just couldnt, of a different character, single parent avocato, to make up for it ive wrote fluff, took me long enough, uhhh this is to make up for putting quinn through hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 21:18:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16272539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlasmaBooks/pseuds/PlasmaBooks
Summary: Little Cato HATES storms, and Avocato finds this out the way every other parent does - the hard way.





	Fallout Storm

He should have known better when it was thundering. He should have known better when Little Cato whined as he shut the bedroom door. But now here he is in the kitchen, bouncing the small kit on his hip as a storm rages outside. Little Cato wails so loud that Avocato believes he could rip his own vocal cords, and every time lightning illuminates the house it all just gets  _worse._ Avocato tries the bottle, the binky, the blanket, every comfort item the kit has ever claimed before, but nothing works. The crying gets so bad that Little Cato snots up his nose and goes into a coughing fit, hardly able to breathe yet still crying.

 

"Look at you,"  Avocato mutters, not completely sure if the kit can hear him or not, "look what you've got yourself into. You're so worked up you can't even breathe." He sighs and grabs a napkin, attempting to wipe the kit's nose but only touching his cheek. The contact is enough to stop Little Cato for a minute, and he immediately heaves in a huge breath. "You're too fragile, buddy. You can't just go off on a fit. Your lungs don't allow it." The wailing resumes after only a second's pause, and Avocato's ears droop. He pulls the kit closer to his chest and sighs again. "Okay, okay. You're right, there's too many windows in here. Come on."

 

Avocato heads back down the hall with some napkins and a pre-heated bottle of milk. He sits down on the bed in his room, his back to the headboard, and pets the little kit's fur as he slips a blanket over the both of them. It muffles the sound of the storm just enough to grab Little Cato's attention. Avocato blindly reaches out of the blanket and grabs his phone, tugging it under and turning it on. The blanket is illuminated with light, and just enough of it to allow both Ventrexians to see. Little Cato whines, crawling up and onto Avocato's chest, nose twitching as a napkin gently runs across it. Avocato taps on his phone and Little Cato watches the screens change, not understanding their purpose but still completely captivated. His ears perk abruptly at a sound coming from the phone - immediately, his shoulders slouch, his tail rests, and he yawns. Avocato smiles softly, adjusting the volume of the lullaby music.  Little Cato drifts off to sleep in his lap and stays asleep after the blanket is pulled away, leaving Avocato to listen to the sound of light rain until he dozes off as well. When Little Cato wakes him up less than an hour later for food, Avocato sits up slowly and grabs the milk bottle to feed him. The milk isn't as warm as it usually is, but Little Cato pays it no mind. Avocato stares -  almost blankly - out the window until Little Cato pulls away from the bottle, curls up on his chest again, and soon returns to sleep. 

 

Avocato tries to follow his lead, but sits awake in a daze. For the sake of brain activity, he sets to counting how many times Little Cato's back rises and falls with a breath in a minute. Sometimes it's forty, other times Little Cato gets stuck and it drops to thirty. He should be breathing faster -  _way_ faster, but the doctors already said that there was nothing to be done for it, and that he would be okay at forty. It's because of his lungs - his respiratory issues; he was weighed down upon by two leather jackets when he was found, completely ignored by his parents, stuffed away in a closet. It did a number on his chest. Avocato's ears flick and he clutches the small kit a little closer. He tries not to be mad about it - they're in jail now, after all - but every time he thinks of Little Cato's lungs he can't help but return to that drug-harboring, marijuana-scented hellhole from a year and a half ago. He growls under his breath; those bastards, how could they just dispose of a kid and ignore it, who gave them the right, he should have killed them, or investigated sooner, maybe then Little Cato wouldn't have to struggle to breathe. Maybe then he would have seventy breaths a minute, be able to generate enough air to sustain his tiny body without problems, maybe his lungs would actually work correctly and he wouldn't have to sit and fuss at the nebulizer every morning. Maybe if he had just been better, been quicker, taken everything more seriously, none of this would have ever happened, never mind have ever become all his fault. He was so horrible, and so slow, and now the thing he loved most in the world was _suffering_ because of his own-

 

Something comes into contact with his hand, and he doesn't realize he's been in tears for quite a while until he looks down and they slip out onto his arm. 

 

He can hardly handle what he sees. 

 

Little Cato has his tiny fist curled around one of Avocato's fingers. He's still asleep, but he's done this so precisely, so preciously, that Avocato almost forgets how to breathe. 

 

He sniffs. Quietly. Then he pulls himself back together and the kit up as close to him as possible. 

 

And in the wake of the fallout storm, they're calm. 

 

 


End file.
